


Glimpses

by dashwood



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post 3a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: Lizzy is slowly coming to terms with her growing feelings for Reddington.





	1. Chapter 1

They discuss #17 in a public library, hidden carefully from curious eyes between the stacks of the American History section right at the back of the building. It feels oddly like high school again, sneaking around the library with her crush, fumbling fingers brushing against spines in a giddy scramble to race the bell while trying not to alarm the strict librarian (but ending up knocking over a cart of newly returned books anyway).

Red keeps picking up books while he tells her about their newest blacklister, and Liz tries not to be too obvious in her staring. His fingers leaf through a couple of biographies on the Founding Fathers, one incredibly heavy looking anthology on the War of Independence, and an encyclopedia on the language of flowers (Liz isn’t sure if it has founds its way into the wrong section by the hand of an overworked librarian or a criminal courier who has hidden a secret message between its pages; one could never know with Red).

After they have established the facts (Adrian Johnson, extraction expert, thinks that Billie Holiday is overrated (which, as Liz secretly suspects, was probably the tipping point in Red’s decision to sell the man out to the FBI)), Red suddenly gasps out an “Oh my!” and picks up yet another mis-sorted book. This time, it’s a worn-out copy of _Macbeth_ , the spine slightly torn and the edges yellowed with age.

“I always loved Shakespeare. The flowing rhythm and the musical melody of the words,” he pauses and shakes his head as an awed smile stretches over his lips. “I still remember, for my tenth birthday my father gave me a copy of _Macbeth_ even though Jimmy Barnes from next door had just gotten a mountain bike for his birthday, so of course that’s all I wanted. But my father was a true scholar and thought that one could never start too early with reading the Bard. Of course, I didn’t understand a word back then, so I’d just stare at the inscription my father had written on the first page: ” _For Raymond. We read to know we’re not alone_ “. I wonder where it went. Probably got thrown out somewhere down the line.”

The reminiscent smile slowly fades from the face and he shakes himself as if physically emerging from the memory. And then - as if he hadn’t just imparted a huge part of himself to her – he moves on, chattering about where they should go for lunch because he is feeling hamburgers but if she’d rather get something Chinese then they could also try out that place down the street and - 

Liz is still standing rooted to the spot when he turns the corner and vanishes behind one of the bookshelves. For a moment she feels as if she has just gotten a glimpse of him which he hadn’t intended to share with anyone.

–

It’s just another day at work, just another morally bankrupt businessman-turned-psychopathic-blacklister on whom Cooper wants a profile. Liz hasn’t done a proper profile in years, barely remembers her theory as it is. In fact, before gathering her things and heading out she had to google which way was up for her Rorschach slides and if it’s the house or the tree which should be drawn first when doing the House-Tree-Person test. All basic lessons from Psych 101 and yet the thought of using them ‘in the field’ as opposed to on overworked college volunteers running on caffeine and exam angst is a scary one.

She barely manages to shoot Red a quick smile in acknowledgment as she passes him on her way to the interrogation room, briefly wonders if he’ll still be around when she’s done with her little tests. Maybe he’d mention lunch and they could grab something together.

Just as she’s almost past him, one of her feet catches in Aram’s messenger bag mid-step. Liz yelps and takes a step back, narrowly avoiding an unpleasant run-in between her face and the floor (her dignity is flying out the window as it is, but one has to take what little wins life offers, so she’ll gladly take the mental award for the honorable feat of staying upright). Unfortunately though, the whole ordeal causes the files in her hands to wriggle free and before she knows it, a whirlwind of classified documents and Rorschach inks are spilling around their feet.

(The ensuing scene before her reminds her of a book she had to read in 7th grade, _Gulliver’s Travels_. Exchange the little people with paperwork, and the shipwrecked traveler with FBI’s Most Wanted and you’re left with this: a put-out Raymond Reddington who did not dare move for fear of stepping on her files.)

It takes a moment for her of them to move, but eventually Liz crouches down with an annoyed sigh and begins to card the files together.

“Shit. This is just what I needed. Can you just-,” she nods absent-mindedly towards the ink charts lying at his feet. “Can you just hand me the one with the bats? I don’t really need the other ones anyway.”

She throws a quick glance in his direction to see him shift uncomfortably on his feet. His eyes are glued to the set of ink splatters at his feet, a look of determined concentration spread over his face as his gaze wanders from one to the other. After a moment, he seems to find what he was looking for, bending over to pick up a single sheet of paper before straightening up and handing it to her with a polite smile.

“Thanks.” Liz straightens up to take the chart from his hand. She glances briefly at its pattern before muttering a barely audible “Well, that’s interesting,” and hurrying off.

–

Saturday night finds her wrapped up in her favorite afghan looking through various antique shops online. It’s a futile thing, she knows. But that’s what the glass of wine is for – motivation (which she badly needs, because all of these unwanted family heirlooms and long-forgotten treasures seem to blur together into one massive 8-ball of nostalgia).

Every now and then, Liz looks up at the television which is playing some documentary on Scotland. Images of beautiful folktale-like landscapes are intercut with old ruins and derelict castles, and Liz wonders if Red is currently staying in one those; she’d peg him as the type of mastermind criminal who owns a safecastle. She thinks that he would probably have the time of his life wandering through drafty stone corridors with a candle or lantern in his hand, all the while quoting Poe at an annoyed-looking Dembe.  

Or maybe it’s not so much a castle as a cozy little apartment in some Scottish village, sheep out front and an associate who launders money in the back.  

Liz sighs and wonders what he’s doing right now, wonders if he’s just had a meeting with some crooked business associates from Poland or Japan, wonders if he’s finally having that whiskey he had been telling her about the other day (the one he had been craving ever since his last bottle got stolen from one of his safehouses in New Hampshire by a Norwegian cat burglar with a hook for a hand). Maybe he’s sipping at it right now while combing through her Netflix account (she wouldn’t have noticed that he somehow managed to hack her account if it hadn’t been for the fact that she knew full-well that it wasn’t her who added _Everybody loves Raymond_ to her watch-list).

But above all, Liz wonders if Red is thinking about her half as much as she is.  

–

She’s had too much to drink, can barely manage to hold herself upright without constantly steadying her swaying feet by hooking her heels into the metal railing at the foot of her barstool. Ressler is just as far gone as she is – the two of them are embarrassingly bad at Halloween parties (he is afraid of clowns, and after three beers she gets very vocal about her opinion of “slutty” vegetable costumes).  

Red thinks it’s incredibly funny, of course. He keeps buying her drink after drink while not-so-subtly trying to steer the conversation towards embarrassing college stories. After a while she throws him a bone and tells him about that one time she made out with one of her professors under the bleachers.

Even though her world is spinning, Liz is not too far gone to notice Red’s hand resting protectively between her shoulder blades. She’s not sure if it’s to make sure she doesn’t tumble over or to discourage men from attempting to chat her up. Either way, the gesture is much appreciated. As are the soothing circles and patterns his thumb keeps drawing on the bare skin revealed by her dress.

Liz briefly closes her eyes and concentrates on the sensation, allows herself to focus solely on his proximity and scent and voice for just one moment. Without even realizing it, she’s leaning in, trying to angle her body so she can get closer to him, closer to his warmth. However, his ministrations on her back stop abruptly and she suppresses the urge to whimper, suddenly wanting nothing more than to tell him to please keep going and to never stop but before she can embarrass herself by doing any of that his fingers start to move again. (She hopes that her grateful sigh goes unnoticed by him.)

She doesn’t even attempt to follow the conversation anymore. Ressler is talking paperwork (a safe subject, after he had visibly surprised himself by asking Red for relationship advice on how to get the cute girl from evidence to notice him) which Red counters with one of his adventurous tales again: an abandoned railway station in Canada, two crime novelists, one Irish haute cuisine chef and-

(There should be an app for this, Liz thinks. A Raymond Reddington story generator that spews out a random place (Kuntucky. Sweden. Here.) and time (6 years ago. During Carnival season. Now.) and person (That girl from _The Exorcist_. A group of Elvis impersonators. Two drunk FBI agents.). His stories always sound like the beginning of a joke: A criminal walks into a bar and - or like that game she used to play with Sam on rainy afternoons, _Clue_ : The Concierge of Crime in the wine cellar with the pretty auctioneer and a box full of misprinted _Moby Dick_ novels.)

Liz is a giggling mess before he even gets to the punchline but Red doesn’t seem to care, just keeps grinning excitedly at her as if she’s the only person in the whole bar.

–

It’s the little things, really.  

How a tiny speck of shaving cream just below his left ear – barely noticeable, really – catches her completely off guard and causes her heart to tingle until he’s out of sight (and then there’s also this absolutely unreasonable urge to bring her fingers up to his face to brush it away, trail her fingers up to his cutting cheekbones and down to his lips and-). For some reason, seeing him in a less than picture-perfect state makes him seem almost… human? So ordinary, as if he’s just another normal human being who wakes up with duvet-cover-lines on his face, whose arms get tangled in his shirt and vest and jacket, and who occasionally misses bits of shaving cream while getting ready in the morning.

It makes him wonderfully real.

Then there’s also the way in which he sneezes; scrunches up his whole face in a childish manner which she probably shouldn’t think of as adorable.  

It’s how he can’t pronounce the word ‘miscellaneous’, somehow adding more syllables than there should be, and it’s something that Liz can’t quite wrap her head around considering that Red speaks more languages than she can count on one (two? Three?) hands; how he frequently uses words like 'acquiescent’ and 'vespertine’ and 'chaparral’ (all of which she had to look up online, glancing inconspicuously at her phone from the corner of her eye so he wouldn’t notice her less than stellar grasp of her mother tongue ( - adoptee father tongue?), and yet his tongue seems to disobey him whenever he attempts to wrap it around the word (for a split second, Liz thinks of something else she’d like him to wrap his tongue around)).

It’s all of these things and yet none of them either. It’s just a constant state of… fondness that she experiences whenever she’s with him. Endearment and familiarity wrapped up in something else, something which she dare not put a name on.

Yet.

–-

Things take a turn for the worse during one of her shopping sprees. Liz doesn’t go out often, doesn’t have the time or money for it, and more often than not groceries and new clothes will magically find their way into her apartment: The fridge filled with fresh vegetables from the local farmer’s market and a chilled bottle of a '93 Merlot that has probably cost more than her mortgage, elegant gowns and dresses lie draped over her bed or hang in a neatly color-coded row inside her closet – all appearing bi-weekly at the hand of some good-willed house elf (or criminal mastermind extraordinaire – and what’s the difference anyway?).

However, sometimes Liz does venture out on her own, finding that occasionally she needs something that isn’t approved by Reddington (like cute blouses in autumn colors or ex-husbands-turned-boyfriends-turned-life-regrets) which is how she ends up wandering through her favorite department store on her day off.

She is just turning to leave when she notices the men’s section: Cravats and ties and hats and canes and gloves and – and Liz somehow finds herself gravitating towards it. She has never really cared for men’s articles of clothing before, had once attempted to buy Tom some cufflinks for his birthday but found they all rather looked the same and nobody really wears them anymore anyway, right? (In the end, she just got him a CD from some local cover band).

Yet, as her hands glide through the ties – artful swirls and pointed dots flowing through her fingers, patterns which probably have the most elegant and distinguished names, something French or German or whatever European country first came up with the idea to drape silken nooses around men’s necks – Liz can’t help but pause at a particularly pretty one. It’s a dark Paisley, one that looks so decidedly Raymond Reddington that Liz can’t help but smile as she imagines it hanging loosely around his neck, patiently waiting to be tied into a Windsor knot (or whatever else they were called. This was really the only one she’d ever heard of – not that she could tie it properly either. She could learn it though, she thought. Look it up on youtube or wikipedia or maybe she’d even work up the courage to ask Red to teach her).

It’s this thought – Raymond Reddington smiling down at her, wrapped up in a Lizzy-acquired-Paisley tie and all, - that makes her want to buy the damn thing, no matter that it will punch a dent into her savings. However, just as soon the whole situation catches up to her. Since when does she buy Reddington gifts? Since when did she _want_ to? And anyway, Red probably has dozens (hundreds?) of ties already – each one custom-made from sainted nuns in some far-off country she has probably never even heard about.

In the end, she leaves without the tie.

(However, the thoughts of a sleepy Raymond Reddington standing at her kitchen table, patiently waiting for her to finish her morning coffee before fixing his tie aren’t as easy to leave behind.)

–-

Sometimes she wonders if he thinks of her as an adult cat. It’s a weird enough metaphor but it sticks. Here is why: Red probably knows that she’s an adult who should be able to look after herself and yet – according to him – instant coffee and take out do not a healthy meal make, and the lack of a corkscrew (she lost hers a while ago, can’t find it anywhere. But google told her to just push the cork into the bottle and that’s how she’s been drinking her wine ever since) tells him that maybe, sometimes, she’s not so much a functioning adult as… Well, here is where she gets lost, adult cat metaphors and missing corkscrews and all.  

But anyway, the point is that while she would probably be able to get through life on her own, maybe – just maybe – she would be even better off with someone to care for her. Someone who would keep her grilled cheese from burning and make sure that the flowers are watered whenever she forgets. Someone who’d notice that she needs new milk or toothpaste before it’s too late. Someone who’d ask her about her day and hold her hand when she’s sick.

And maybe she wouldn’t mind too much if that person were Red.

–

Over time, their secret meeting places change. Cozy coffee shops and elegant restaurants turn into high-end grocery stores and antiques’ markets. They discuss #76 at an Ikea store and if it weren’t for Dembe trailing 5 feet behind them with a watchful eye it would almost feel like an afternoon spent with her boyfriend picking out new furniture for their shared apartment.

Red claims to need a new mattress, so naturally he has roped Liz into helping him choose the right one (because according to Red, “One should always get a woman’s opinion when shopping for mattresses or cologne, Lizzy”).

(Liz can’t imagine whatever he’d need one for anyway since she is (almost) certain that he doesn’t carry one with him whenever he’s switching safehouses. And even if he were, he probably wouldn’t get one from Ikea of all places).

That’s how she ends up on the bed in Ikea exhibition room HEMNES with FBI’s Most Wanted. They’re just lying next to each other, staring at the ceiling while talking in hushed voices, the conversation ranging from the abhorrent crimes committed by #76 to the delightful advantages of water beds.

Despite the absurd nature of their "bedroom talk”, as Red had jokingly referred to their choice of topics, it almost feels as if they’re normal human beings. As if they’re not in a public place but in their own little world, just them and Dembe’s lingering presence in the adjacent nursery, glaring at anyone who dares come too close. (And then there’s also the bored teenager in the Ikea uniform who is throwing them accusatory looks, making sure that their hands stay above the covers).

She doesn’t get too many information on their blacklister that day, but finds out a number of other things in the meantime:  

1) She very much likes the feeling of lying next to Red, likes how a slight shift to the left would bring her right up against him. She likes how she can feel his warmth seeping through the dozens of layers he is probably wearing, likes to be so close to him that she can smell his cologne (even though he has never asked her opinion on it).

2) They like the same kind of mattresses – not too hard to remind them of sleeping on the cot in The Box, but just hard enough so as not to feel like sleeping on Jell-O (his comparison, not hers). The thought of them being mattress-compatible (if there even is such a thing) spreads a feeling of warmth inside of her and tugs her lips into a sappy grin. It’s completely irrational, really. 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t buy anything that day. However, the day after, a brand new mattress is delivered to her home.  

(Their next meeting will take them to the local animal shelter, but that’s another story.)

–

It happens when she’s having him over for dinner one day. As usual, he has invited himself in, but since he has also brought a bottle of Merlot along she doesn’t mind quite that much. Plus, for some reason she finds him less annoying with each passing days (some days, she’d even go so far as to say she likes having him near).  

He is sitting at her kitchen table, hands flailing animatedly through the air as he’s recounting his last trip to Germany (the main ingredients of his tale being 3 (three) pints of Kölsch, 1 (one) charming bar maid with 1 (one) wooden leg and 1 (one) furious husband who worked in law enforcement). Within minutes he has reduced her into an incontrollably giggling mess which ups the already medium-to-difficult level of the home-made stew she attempts to make (she does like the proud glint in his eyes though, the one she finds whenever he manages to make her smile).

And really, she blames it on him when her stew doesn’t turn out the way it should have because when she tries it, it’s easily the most horrendous thing she has ever tasted, much too sweet and did she maybe mix up sugar and salt again (Liz should have known better than to buy two identical shakers, but they were on sale and a recently reinstated fugitive can’t be too picky, even if she’s funded by FBI’s Number 4). Instinctively, Liz turns towards Red – gravitates towards him, really – spoon in hand and a disgusted frown on her face.

“Oh my god, this is so bad. Try it.”

And really, there is no logical explanation whatsoever why anyone would willingly taste something with that sort of prefacing but he does it anyway. Makes a completely silly face afterwards, the right corner of his mouth tugged downwards in an overdone grimace, before he opens his mouth to stick his tongue out. Makes a huffing sound, too.  

(It’s entirely too endearing.)

It’s fertilized duck eggs all over, only that she has never tried them because until now she has never understood the desire to share something bad before. But now, for some bizarre reason, Liz thinks that if he’d ask her again, then yes, she’d go and have dinner with him quite willingly. Sit in some pompous and stuffy restaurant and poke her fork at some of the most disgusting delicacies this world has to offer just to see him laugh. This time, there would be no dragging her feet, no clumsy agents in the bushes and no girlfriends from Ann Arbor. Just the two of them, Red and Lizzy, as it should be.

–

It’s a Thursday morning – the hour barely decent - when she receives an e-mail alert from some out-of-this-world pawnshop in a sleepy small town in Maine, claiming to have her book, the one she’s been looking for for months now. So of course she calls in sick, double-loops a scarf around her neck and prepares a thermos full of tea (the disgustingly sweet one Red had brought her a souvenir from his last trip to India) before throwing herself into her car.

It takes her a few hours to get down to Maine and half an hour more (and a short stop at this lovely little diner which serves the most wonderful strawberry pie and dammit, she’s starting to sound just like Red talking about some stupid hole-in-the-wall place) until she has finally tracked down the pawnshop.

Its owner is polite enough, looks as if he’d rather sell that ancient looking dressing table in the window or that fairytale-themed mobile dangling from the ceiling, but he’ll have to do with the book today. Liz can’t help but smile as she sees it laid out on the counter, its edges slightly ragged with age, the color of the pages leaning more towards yellow than white. As her fingers reach for it – hesitantly, slowly, carefully – Liz feels that treacherous feeling of hope spread through her, warming her up from the inside.  

Please, Liz thinks, please let it be the right one. Just this once, let something actually go her way.

She opens the book, lets her fingers run over its edges and through the pages before eventually going back to the first page and – yes! Yes, thank god it’s there.  

Liz can’t wait to see Red’s face when he sees it.

–

She has it all wrapped up – picked up a new gift wrap just for him (she hasn’t given a gift to someone in ages, and even then she mostly opted for newspaper). It’s sitting snugly inside her bag now, fitted neatly between some paperwork-to-go from the Post Office and a poetry collection Red had lent her when she had been over the last time.  

However, instead of finding him in his usual state of mind when she next stops by – philosophical fish metaphors and cigars and “Dembe, would you mind picking up something from that Thai place down the street, I’m sure Lizzy hasn’t had anything to eat ever since she insisted on having that abhorrent instant pudding for lunch” - he is slummed on the couch, an expensive looking afghan thrown over his pitifully coughing figure. His features draw into a deep frown when he notices her standing in the door and for a moment it looks as if he’s trying to compose himself, tries to sit up a bit straighter and coaches his body into looking less like that of a man currently on the verge of a violent coughing fit.

Liz thinks that it’s probably insensitive to describe an obviously sick person as adorable but damn, he really is. So instead she opts for-

“Are you alright?”

“It’s just a cold, Lizzy. Nothing to worry about. I’m sure I’ll be up and running again in a few days.” Red sniffs pathetically.

Well, that’s a bit of a surprise. For some reason, Liz would have pegged him for one of those guys who become overly melodramatic when sick, the ones who adopt a Phantom of the Opera sort of attitude, blankets trailing behind them like the billowing end of a cape, and nasally exclaimed outrages against the unfairness of life.

But Red merely looks expectantly up at her – the effect of his questioning gaze only slightly ruined by his flushed cheeks and reddened eyes. Liz briefly thinks of his gift sitting snugly in her bag and decides to hold on to it for just a bit longer. Instead, she just shrugs and sits down on the other end of the couch (she thinks it’s absolutely adorable how he shuffles further up the couch, tugs his woolen blanket towards him so she’ll have enough space to sit).  

“Sam and I would always watch old re-runs on television whenever one of us was sick,” she quietly admits after a moment. Her fingers itch towards the remote control sitting on the table in front of them. “May I?”

Red just stares at her, confusion etching itself onto his features before giving way to hope, and when was the last time someone looked after him when he was sick? The thought saddens her and all of a sudden all she wants to do is wrap her arms around him and kiss his forehead, make him tea and cover him in even more blankets. But above all, she just wants to make sure that he’s alright (the way he always makes sure that she is).

“You want to watch re-runs?” He asks cautiously after a moment.

Liz just nods and finally reaches for the remote. She doesn’t even try to find something on television, instead logs right into her Netflix account and scrolls through her watch list (hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t notice that it’s filled with documentaries on the countries he last visited) and plays the pilot of _Everybody loves Raymond_ (which, as it turns out, he has never seen before and doesn’t really like all that much after all).

When she eventually leaves his present is still safely hidden inside her bag. She’ll give it to him another day. At least that way, she has a reason to stop by again.

–

It’s nearing Christmas.

He’s currently in Germany, something about secret arms deals and Glühwein. To Liz it sounded more like an elaborate plan to escape the Post Office’s Secret Santa without hurting Aram’s feelings than an actually required business trip.

Her suspicion is only strengthened by the gift he sent her, some sort of special calendar for the Christmas season. According to Red, it’s part of an old German tradition. There’s a little window for each day of December leading up to Christmas filled with a assortment of delicious Belgian chocolate.  

Liz isn’t sure if it’s meant as an apology for not participating in an office event that has an 1:5 odds of ending with having to buy a present for Ressler, or merely to ensure that she thinks of him at least once a day.

–

T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house / her heart could be heard, racing inside her blouse.  

Liz just knows that her nerves are flowing over, can feel her cheeks start to flush whenever he looks up from his task to look at her. He’s currently rolling out dough because for some reason he has decided that they are making cookies. It’s not that she minds, she likes cookies well enough and she likes spending time with him even more, so really, there should be nothing to keep her from enjoying their little evening spent together.  

It’s just that she can’t really focus on anything but her clammy hands which will soon be giving him his present, and somehow Liz can’t help but fret over it. What if it’s too much? What if instead of thinking of it as a sweet gesture he thinks that spending months hunting down a stupid book which he mentioned once in passing is borderline obsessive behavior (because that’s what her profiler mind tell her.). Except it’s not stupid because he had told her that the book was once important to him. Which means that he’ll probably - hopefully - appreciate all the efforts she has put into finding it.  

She’s roused out of her musings by a flour-covered finger poking her cheek.  

“What the hell is your problem, Red?” She means to sound angry because now she’s probably looking absolutely ridiculous, white flour stains on her face and all, but she can’t quite keep the smile off her face. She can’t help but like it when he’s being goofy, even if it has a negative result on her appearance.

“There you are. You were miles away just now. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I was just-,” she shrugs in a universal sort of 'You know how it is’ gesture. He doesn’t seem convinced though, keeps staring at her with an expression of concern on his face and fine, he wins (as always). “Actually, I’ve got something for you.”

She’s about to turn away and go in search of his present inside her bag (somewhere far away from him where maybe she wouldn’t feel like being out on a date with her first crush) when she notices the expression on his face. It’s something she can’t quite place, a curious mixture of anticipation and hope, but just as soon it’s gone again, vanished to give way to a lopsided grin.

“It’s not Christmas yet, Lizzy.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, moving away from him at last.  

“It’s not a Christmas present. Well, it is, I suppose. But I actually got it some time ago and I guess it was never the right moment to give it to you so…”

“And you decided that the best moment to hand it over would be when we’re both covered in flour?” He wriggles his snow white hands before wiping them as-good-as-clean on a kitchen towel.  

“You know, if you don’t want it you can just tell me now-”

“No, no. I’ll take it.” Suddenly he is right beside her, eagerly swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet as he smiles down at her. The wondrous, wistful expression on his face makes her heart jump excitedly.

She slowly takes his present out and hands it over, watches as he carefully takes it. He trails his fingers over the wrapping and his silence is making this so much worse, causes her heart to race frantically, and Liz can practically feel her fingers tingle with the urge to rip it out of his fingers and throw it out the window, so that this excruciating moment can finally be over and -  

Red is finally opening the wrapping and Liz can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes what she’s given him. His eyes light up and a warm smile spreads over his face. She watches with baited breath as he chuckles and shakes his head in incredulous delight.

“I can’t believe you remembered. This is wonderful, it’s just the same edition, too.”

Oh. He thinks she got him just another copy of it. Well, he’s in for a surprise then. Liz doesn’t do things by half, after all.  

“Really, you shouldn’t have, it’s-,” he abruptly goes silent as he opens the book to the first page and of course it’s there, _Dear Raymond_ and - _to know we’re not alone_ and _Yours_ -. 

He just stares down at it, eyes trailing over the inked message from over 40 years ago. Liz can just make out that nervous twitch just below his eye, the only sign that he’s overwhelmed, that the great Raymond Reddington doesn’t know what to say because once again she has thrown him off kilter. And god, this silence is absolutely dreadful, Liz thinks. It’s too much, he’s just standing there and maybe she should just leave, grab her coat and go, or maybe she could hurl herself out the window, they were only in the second story and cracked ribs and broken legs were still better than watching Red fall apart at the seams.

But then the moment passes and Red swallows, slowly drags his eyes from the book in his hands to her (his eyes look more vibrant and Liz briefly wonders if she has managed to make him tear up).

“Thank you, Lizzy.” His voice sounds rough and she pretends not to notice how it slightly catches at her name. Instead she smiles and nods. All of a sudden, she feels incredibly light, as if a heavy weight has been lifted off her. It’s the best feeling in the world, really. Knowing that they are okay, that they always will be, and that she can finally concentrate on their baking (because she hasn’t yet teased him for his choice of cookie cutters – fedoras and guns, and surely he’ll laugh it off and claim that they had been Dembe’s idea).

“You’re welcome, Red.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos or comments - it means more to me than you could know. Enjoy.

It’s New Year’s Eve and she is stuck at the Post Office.

It’s just her and Aram and some British guy in a blue telephone box chasing aliens around on Aram’s computer screen. The air inside the office is too stuffy and one of the bulbs hanging above their heads keeps flickering as if it’s just dying to give some b-rated horror movie monster a chance to chase two FBI agents through the blacksites’ darkened corridors. Still, the incessant flickering isn’t nearly as bad as the broken vending machine looming ominously in the corner. Every now and then it coughs out a pitiful rattle which never fails to make either of them jump.

Meanwhile Ressler and Samar are out in the field to gather Intel on their latest blacklister at some ridiculously exclusive party for high-end criminals. Reddington is with them of course, and Liz suspects that right now he’s busy schmoozing up to famous art thieves and gifted forgers while mocking Ressler’s choice of wardrobe.

(Liz secretly wonders what Red is wearing. She hasn’t gotten a chance to see him dressed in a tux for quite some time.)

Overall, Liz would much rather be out there with them than back here at the office. She hasn’t been part of an undercover mission for a while now, and even though it hadn’t been her original plan to become a field agent for the FBI, Liz finds herself sorely missing the dangers that come with that particular non-office job: The constant thinking on her feet, the overwhelming rush of adrenaline, the touch-and-go and don’t-get-caught…

But this is what she gets instead: towering stacks of paperwork, watered-down vending machine coffee, and wonky 60s television aliens.

At least she tries to make the most of it, she really does. It’s number one on her list of New Year’s resolutions: ‘When life gives you lemons’ and all that stupid metaphorical crap at which she had always rolled her eyes. But ever since Red had shown up with his little black book of criminals, life had taken to throwing an exorbitant amount of lemons at her left and right (and when Liz says ‘lemons’ what she really means is corrupt bankers and psychopathic tax evaders, gun-armed goons and power-hungry politicians).

And it’s going well so far - her resolution, that is. Because Liz is pretty sure that her smile doesn’t come off as forced when Aram shyly retrieves a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling wine from his messenger bag to celebrate the approaching year.

(Still, Liz can’t help but wish that she were at that stupid party with Red, sipping expensive champagne while she dances into the new year.)

As Aram pours them a glass each, Liz’s phone chirps quietly. She quickly excuses herself with an apologetic smile before picking it up. Unsurprisingly, it’s Red’s overly cheerful voice that greets her on the other side.

“Lizzy! I hope I haven’t interrupted any unsavory New Year’s celebrations currently going on at the Post Office?”

Liz snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“You really should have come, Lizzy! Donald is doing an amazingly thorough job at being the dullest person at the entire event, but the music is good and the drinks are free. They also have this absolutely magnificent ice sculpture-”

“Was there a reason for your call? Did you finally get the information we need or is this just you checking in to make sure that we haven’t drunk each other under the table?”

The sound of Red’s amused chuckle lifts her spirits and it’s almost enough to drown out her annoyance at having to stay behind at the Post Office on New Year’s Eve.

(And really, it’s not as if she has any other options because - truth be told - if she hadn’t had to come in to work tonight, she simply would have stayed in and watched _Die Hard_ on Netflix while staring longingly at the happy families and lovelorn couples gathered outside to watch the fireworks like a grumpy old grandmother swinging a broom on her porch and shouting at the neighbors’ kids to get off her lawn.)

“Well, since you’re so intent on being the perfect picture of a hardworking government official I won’t waste any more of your valuable time on small talk. I simply called to say-”

He pauses as if to bide his time and Liz’s heart stutters in anticipation of his next words.

“Happy New Year, Lizzy.”

Her eyes fly up to the large office clock in surprise. And yes, without her notice the two hands have met at the top in a perfectly straight line; the old year has gone by, burst and flickered like a dying flame only to start up again, bright and shimmering and oh so promising.

And suddenly Liz finds it hard to swallow past the lump in her throat. Because even though Red is currently miles away, merrily dancing and dining with this world’s most interesting men and women, he still turned away from it all to talk to _her_ when the year turned.

Liz’s voice sounds slightly breathless when she eventually responds.

“Happy New Year, Red.”

\--

Liz squints at her laptop, trying - and failing - to make out the instructions of the recipe past the many blotches of flour and cinnamon currently sprinkled over the screen.

It’s the first of January - the first day of the New Year - and Liz thinks that this is the perfect time for a new beginning. It should be easy enough; she just needs to draw a line, skip over it, and never look back.

Except that she does. Look back, that is. Because Liz knows that she has made quite a few tremendously bad decisions in the last year: She has put her trust in an undeserving husband, but kept it from a criminal mastermind who actually deserved it. She has shot the attorney general of the United States in blind rage before running as far away from it all as her weary feet would carry her.

And if she has made those mistakes, then what else has she been wrong about?

Liz fully intends to find out which is how she ends up with a towering stack of pancakes on a freezing Sunday morning. The cold is clawing at her windows, sprouting a trail of glowing white frost on the glass and it’s such a contrast to the burnt black of her first attempt at a pancake that Liz can’t help but laugh (even if she wants to cry at her complete inability to make even the simplest of meals without having to fear becoming a tragic cautionary tale: the sad, lonely lady who accidentally poisoned herself with her own breakfast).

She’s never really liked pancakes anyway; Sam’s were always too sweet and a bit on the clumpy side while Tom’s were… well, they were standard pancakes, she supposes: boring and completely ordinary, just as one would expect from a cardboard cut-out elementary school teacher.

Surprisingly, her own pancakes turn out alright (at least after that disastrous first one), neither burnt nor dough-drippingly raw, and Liz is almost looking forward to trying them. She’s got an assortment of condiments, too, so she tries a bite with honey, one with chocolate sauce, then maple syrup. Cinnamon and whipped cream and some exotic kind of homemade marmalade which Red left at her place when he invited himself over for brunch the other day.

Still, Liz frowns after trying each bite because no, at least that much hasn’t changed. She still hates pancakes, thinks they are quite overrated, really.

She goes through a lot of lists that day: music (Liz finds she’s found a new appreciation for the _kill your undeserving husband_ attitude of country music), tea (she can’t quite get herself to like that strong Earl Grey which Ressler recommended for sleepless nights), and literature (she’s finally getting rid of those Russian classics which she bought on a whim to get in touch with her heritage. She’s never going to fight her way through the warped sentence structure anyway, so she might as well make some room for other things).

Liz briefly allows herself to wonder if the same rules can be applied to people, too, wonders if she should do some kind of where-are-they-now research on her dusty Facebook account to look up ex-boyfriends and old college roommates.

She’s never been good at it. At friendship, that is. She just doesn’t do the whole small talk thing, the keeping in touch, the non-envious smiles whenever someone tells her about their engagement or pregnancy (while she is as alone as it gets).

But she does miss Ellie, misses going out every once in a while to grab a beer or watch a movie. Hell, she even misses going out on those horrendously stiff double dates with Tom and his colleagues.

And of course she could just ask Ressler or Samar or Aram to hang out with her, but she’s been there, done that, and for some reason she feels as if she should hang out with someone whose life isn’t threatened on a daily basis. 

Sighing in resignation, Liz settles herself on the couch with a cup of coffee and glares at the silent phone. It’s probably just the typical New Year’s depression, but somehow the prospect of spending the rest of the day alone leaves her in a dark mood.

She could call Red, she supposes. Ask him where he is, what he’s doing (and if he’d mind some company), but she doesn’t want to come across as pestering or needy. He’s probably busy, anyway, laundering money or trading stolen Fabergé eggs or breaking-and-entering into another embassy or--

Cringing, she shakes her head at herself. There really must be something wrong with her because for some ungodly reason the thought of joining him in another one of his criminal misadventures leaves her positively buzzing with excitement.

And oh, what the hell, she thinks and reaches for the phone.

\--

Her eyes are glued to the little parking lot across the street as she warily observes the people passing by - a woman with a crying toddler, an elderly couple, two teenage boys smoking pot - none of them matches the description of their suspect, and if their blacklister doesn’t arrive within the next half hour she is going to march into that stupid supermarket and get a bottle of red wine.

It’s not that she’s running out of patience. She’s actually quite good at stakeouts. Once, her and Ressler observed an abandoned warehouse for 23 hours (--before Reddington called to graciously let them know that the man they were looking for was currently on vacation in Hawaii, and that this particular warehouse hadn’t been used by him in years, anyway).

It’s just that lately, Liz hasn’t been too keen on spending time with Red.

Well, no. That’s not exactly true either. Truth be told, she loves spending time with him, can’t keep the smile off her face whenever he calls to invite her to breakfast or lunch or dinner or various nefarious activities which she should probably decline with a ‘hell no’.

But this? Being stuck with him for over two hours in a closely confined space? This is pure hell.

Oh, the first hour was all fun and games, alright. Red told her about his latest trip to Italy from which he had just returned (looking slightly tan, Liz couldn’t help but notice) while she nibbled on the chocolate pralines he had brought her as a souvenir (“I know what you think, Lizzy. Italy and chocolate doesn’t go together but just wait until you’ve tried this one - I swear it’s just as good as those Belgian chocolate truffles we had the other day-”).

But after their initial round of catching up they fall quiet, leaving only silence between them. Which isn’t bad either. In fact, Liz quite likes it. It’s companionable and enjoyable and she likes it even better because she knows that Red doesn’t do silence - he _always_ talks. So the knowledge that he feels comfortable enough around her to just stay silent instead of launching into another ridiculously outrageous tale of his - well, Liz is unprepared for just how special that makes her feel.

Just the same, the silence is slowly starting to get to her because if she can’t focus on maintaining a conversation then she has to focus on something else instead. But concentrating on his cologne and the tingling sensation it creates deep inside her belly isn’t particularly helpful, and neither is paying attention to the way his eyelashes seem to glow in the winter sun which drifts in through the windows.

Liz shakes her head at herself, shivers involuntarily at her school girl-like behavior. But Red - attentive as always - must have mistaken it for a reaction to the increasing cold because in a moment he retrieves his coat from the passenger seat to hand it to her. It’s his duffle coat - the incredibly warm and cozy looking one with the fake fur sewn to its hood, and Liz can feel herself warming up at the mere thought of being wrapped up in it (although she isn’t sure if that’d because of the coat or because of the fact that it belongs to Red).

She thanks him with a sheepish smile before slipping her freezing limbs into the sleeves, and _oh_ -

Smiling softly to herself, Liz suppresses a content moan as she buries further into Red’s jacket. It smells just like him, faint traces of cigar smoke mixed with the dark undertones of his cologne. It’s warm and safe and almost as good as hugging Red directly, she thinks.

Liz hopes their suspect won’t show up for another few hours at least.

\-- 

“You been out on any dates recently?”

Samar casts a suspicious glance at the arrangement of white and rose-tinged tulips sitting proudly on her desk.

“They’re from Reddington.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Liz gives an uneasy snort - half laugh, half ‘please let’s just not talk about this’ - and tries hard to clamp down on the sudden onslaught of nerves rushing through her, because even though she has grudgingly come to terms with the fact that her feelings towards Red have changed from reluctant friendship to something else ( - something vibrant and lively which claws at her from the inside, threatening to burst out of her at any given moment) - well, that still doesn’t mean that she wants anyone to know about it.

Hell, Liz isn’t even sure she wants _Red_ to know.

“It’s stupid,” she sighs at last, “I had this dream the other night. We were chasing some blacklister and Red said something mean - I can’t even remember what it was.”

“So he sent you flowers to make up for something he said to you in a dream?”

Liz shrugs and tries hard to ignore the appreciative look on Samar’s face.

“Wow. That man’s a keeper.”

\--

“When I was thirteen,” Red begins and Liz swallows a groan. Apparently, he has decided that it’s time for another story which means that she won’t get a word in for the next five-to-ten minutes.

With a sigh, she leans back in her chair and lets her gaze wander from the pretentious selection of fruit on the table between them (grapes and cherries and some exotic little berries which she has never seen before) to the well-dressed couples swaying quietly on the dancefloor.

“I was absolutely besotted with the girl next door - Penny Epstein. She had this adorable tooth gap and God, those freckles…,” he chuckles, shakes his head, “We used to sneak into our teacher’s garden - Mrs. Emmerson, horrible woman - to steal her cherries.

“And Penny… She would do this absolutely _fascinating_ thing with her tongue; turned the cherry stems right into knots.”

He shakes his head with a dreamy, almost besotted smile on his face.

“What an enlightening summer that was for me.”

Liz can’t quite keep the sly smile off her face as she pops a cherry into her mouth.

“You mean like that?" 

With a lazy grin, Liz draws a neatly-knotted cherry stem from between her lips.

The effect her little sleight of mouth trick has on Red is immediate. Within seconds his carefully crafted mask of the suave criminal slips, his mouth going slack as a breathless sound escapes his lungs. At first, Liz isn’t sure whether it’s from surprise or awe; if she’s merely thrown him off track or if there’s something more to it. But then his eyes turn dark, the iridescent green swallowed almost completely by the black of his pupils and the sudden intensity of his gaze knocks the breath right out of her.

She can’t tear her eyes away, simply watches as his tongue darts out to subconsciously flick over his lips. He looks a bit dazed, head cocked slightly to the side, and for a moment his slack-jawed expression brings back memories of red silk and mismatched clutches in a Syrian embassy; of golden curls and rolled up sleeves in stolen houses.

And all of a sudden the room feels too hot and stuffy, and Liz wishes desperately that she could just slip out of her gown, the silk too tight and scratchy against her flushed skin.

Shifting restlessly in her chair, Liz can feel the blood rush into her cheeks, because she is pretty sure that right now, Red would very much like to kiss her.

\--

They are back at his cozy little Bethesda apartment, just her and Red and Modesty - Red’s cat who merely flicked its ears at her in a show of feline disinterest.

It feels strange to have Red’s explicit permission to be here, to just walk in through the front door like a guest instead of having to pick the lock while keeping an eye out for noisy neighbors (the last time she broke in, an elderly woman from upstairs asked her what she was doing and Liz had to come up with an excuse - something about wanting to surprise her boyfriend, but having lost the spare key to his flat).

This time, however, Liz just knocks like a normal-functioning human being with basic knowledge of social etiquette (and wow, she blames Aram’s stupid TV show for that particular comparison).

The door flies open in an instant and Liz can’t help but wonder if he was looking forward to her visit as much as she did. Red greets her with a welcoming smile and a glass of wine, tells her to make herself at home while he takes her coat and beanie.

It’s almost as if he _wants_ her to poke through his things and Liz’d be damned if she didn’t use this as an opportunity to learn something new about him.

So she slowly takes a look around the room as Red settles himself on his couch. He really doesn’t seem to mind her perusal of his things; if anything he looks mildly amused as he follows her with his eyes.

Going through his things, she finds, is like discovering a whole new planet, one which you had only seen through a telescope from afar, one which orbited around you in never-ending circles, always there but never close enough to touch. But all of a sudden you’re allowed a closer look and it’s overwhelming and new and simply marvelous.

And yes, Liz is aware of just how sappy that makes her sound because really, what is this, one of those cheesy romance novels she devoured in high school? (A true milestone in her romantic education, Liz digresses. It was either that or having to die of embarrassment while Sam - clearly just as uncomfortable with the whole conversation as she felt herself - told her about the birds and the bees.)

Still, Liz can’t quite keep the besotted smile off her face whenever she stumbles upon something new - something completely ordinary and boringly trivial like a postcard, a scrawled reminder on a post-it note or a worn bookmark; each made only special by the mere circumstance that they belonged to _him_.

His book collection is impressive, just like she knew it would be. First editions are wedged between thick coffee-table books and well-worn poetry collections. She finds her book - the one she had given to him just before Christmas - placed carefully next to a copy of _Romeo and Juliet_. It spreads a feeling of warmth through her - the thought that he values something which she got him enough to place it amidst his most treasured possessions in this little refuge of his.

As she moves on from his bookshelf, Red takes a break from telling her about this “delightful little festival in Norway - you’d love it Lizzy” to sip at his glass of wine (the one she picked up on her way over. It wasn’t the cheapest one at the store but it’s probably not up to his usual standards by far. Still, he didn’t grimace too much when tasting it, so she counts it as a win).

As she’s going through his music collection, Liz notices something stuffed carelessly between two of the records. Biting her lip in concentration, she starts to pick at its ragged edges until she’s coaxed a single Polaroid picture out from between Lee Morgan and Charlie Parker.

Liz isn’t sure what exactly she expected, maybe another picture of Sam or even one of herself, but it’s certainly not this, because staring back at her from the slightly faded photograph is Red himself, looking as government-challenging and mischievous as she’s ever seen him, but so unbelievably, heartbreakingly _young_.

(She’d never admit this, but Liz actually _squealed_ when she realized just what she had found.)

“Oh my god, you look like an 80s teen heartthrob!”

In an instant he’s right beside her, his glass of wine perched perniciously close to the edge of the little coffee table.

His smile seems a bit too wide, Liz notes, and yes, there’s also that incessant tapping of his fingers against his thigh just before he brings his hand up to take the picture from her - as if she’d let him. Instead she snatches her hand away just in time and takes a step to the side to evade his outstretched arm.

She can feel her lips quirk into a full-blown grin at his obvious embarrassment.

“Just look at all that fluffy hair and that horrible suit - oh my god!”

"Yes, very funny, Lizzy,” he makes that cute little sound - the one between a strangled scoff and an embarrassed chuckle, “I realize that you’re probably having the time of your life with this, but--”

“Are there more? Let me just-”

“No. Lizzy, wait-”

Ducking under his arm, she starts to dig through his records once more, prying one out while pushing another one back in and it isn’t too long before she comes up with a handful of pictures, each one more blackmail-worthy than the other: There’s one of a young Raymond Reddington in an oversized college jacket (Liz isn’t sure whether to laugh or cringe at the shoulder pads), and another one of him in a truly hideous Christmas sweater (and considering that those sweaters haven’t been fashionable until recently, there really is no excuse for that thing). In yet another picture he’s smiling cheekily into the camera in what appears to be a professional headshot - navy uniform and all. And then there’s one of him with a pair of large sunglasses perched low on his nose, his cheeks slightly sunburnt and his tongue stuck out at the camera.

It’s too good to be true, really.

Liz feels a giggle spill past her lips, can’t quite help herself, really. Because suddenly she feels incredibly warm and happy, absolutely exuberant. It’s as if her heart it an imploding star bursting into itself, leaving nothing but glowing sparks inside of her.

“Lizzy, please,” he says in a whiny voice, almost pouting.

And God, just look at him! He’s actually blushing - shyly, sweetly. It’s the most endearing thing, and Liz fights the growing urge to cup his face in her hands to let her fingers trace that lovely glow.

Of course she returns the pictures eventually, huffs a bit as if put-out by his spoilsport attitude. Red takes them with a grateful smile and Liz notes that he can barely meet her eyes as he shuffles past her to stow the photographs away once more (he probably makes a mental note to burn them after she has left).

It’s really cute how he sometimes forgets that she’s a thief, Liz thinks as she tugs one of the stolen photographs into her pocket. It will look quite nicely in her wallet.

\--

Apparently #27 has a thing for insects - spiders in particular (and yes, Liz is well aware that spiders aren’t insects per se, because Red has only told her about a dozen times already, and really, it’s as if that smug bastard has picked this particular blacklister just to show off his impressive - if somewhat alarming - knowledge of all things crawling around on earth on six-slash-eight fiber-like legs).

Their search quickly leads them to “The Net” - some sort of high-end pet shop for what Liz mentally refers to as vermin. The owner is an asset of Red’s, “a bit peculiar” if his judgment can be trusted. Liz is inclined to agree though; in her book anyone who willingly surrounds themselves with spiders can safely be classified as a nutcase (which is probably a requirement for being an asset to the great Raymond Reddington anyway).

Liz is just about to get out of the car to go see a man about a spider when she notices that Red isn’t moving.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. There are some important calls I have to make, so I think I’ll just stay here.”

He scrunches his face up in a show of exaggerated nonchalance and busies himself with flicking a speck of imaginary dust from his coat sleeve. Liz isn’t quite sure what to make of his tone. In fact, if she didn’t know any better she’d almost say that he sounds --

But no, surely that can’t be.

“Don’t worry, Lizzy. Gordon is very forthcoming - I’m sure you two will get along just fine without my being there,” he says, all innocence.

“Alright, fine, whatever." 

Shrugging, she exits the car and goes in search of Red’s contact.

And it turns out that Red was right, Gordon really is a decent fellow. Very keen on helping her out - proudly shows her some of his favorites while telling her about their blacklister’s latest purchase - some sort of rare import which Aram should be able to track down in no time.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know, Ms. Keen?” Gordon asks as he escorts her back to the door and Liz can feel a mischievous smile spreading over her face.

“Yes, actually… Is there any chance I could get one of those spiders to-go?”

\--

“What happened to your hands?”

Liz looks up from her work and down to her hands.

“It’s called “ombré fingers”. It’s a new trend where you stain your fingers to get a gradient sort of look,” she deadpans and watches in amusement as his features give way to a confused frown. “I threw some beet into my salad yesterday, and apparently you’re supposed to wear gloves when you cut them.”

To her relief, Red’s answering chuckle sounds more fond than incredulous.

“You know,” he says somewhat hesitant, “if you should ever decide that you would like to explore your culinary skills in a safer context which won’t result in stained fingertips - not that the color doesn’t look absolutely lovely on you - I could always teach you one or two things?”

(And oh, she doesn’t doubt that at all.)

Liz swallows her initial response (a flustered “No thank you I’m good I watch a lot of cooking competitions on television so I know the difference between a _brioche_ and an _éclair_ in theory at least and also there’s take out and the US government hasn’t yet declared microwave-able instant meals as radioactive so I should be good for the next few months thank you though”) and worries her lip as she mulls it over.

Because of course she has considered asking Red for help. There are a lot of things she’s never quite gotten the hang of and somehow she doesn’t think that Red would be particularly opposed to teaching her things like chess or Windsor knots or how to eat with chopsticks without looking like a clumsy fool.

But whenever she’s about to actually ask him, Liz’s imagination unbiddenly calls up images of Red sitting right next to her, his voice dark and hypnotic as he tells her about each piece of chess. Even worse are the fantasies of him standing in front of her, hands dancing softly over her wrists before he guides them towards his collar so she can smooth it over before draping a tie around his neck. Which, in turn, is an equally as frustrating thought as imagining his big hand wrapped around her smaller one, gently spreading her fingers to position the chopsticks just so, a fond chuckle rumbling through his chest whenever her nervously trembling fingers get it wrong.

Liz shifts in her seat and God, was it getting hot in here or..?

Somehow she finds herself nodding and the radiant smile that spreads over his face is almost enough to drown out the rapid gunfire-beating of her heart.

(Turns out that while they are a force to be reckoned with when taking down dangerous criminals they are nothing but a safety hazard in the kitchen. Thank God for Baz’s attentive monitoring of her fire alarm because Liz isn’t entirely convinced that the pitiful sprinklers could have saved them from the spitting flames of the burning remnants of their dinner)

\--

“Nice scarf.”

She follows Samar’s eyes to the woolen garment draped loosely around Red’s neck, and it’s only now that Liz realizes where she’s seen it before.

“Hmm? Oh, thank you. I’m rather fond of it myself.”

“I already liked it when Liz wore it last week.”

Liz can feel the color drain from her face as she watches the scene unfold in front of her. It’s a bit like being stuck in a bad dream - the ones in which something is chasing her and all she wants to do is run, run, run, but for some reason her legs feel as if they’re stuck in goo or jelly or that scented hair gel which Ressler has been using lately.

Samar is looking more smug than the situation warrants, because this isn’t funny at all - in fact, Liz is pretty sure that sharing clothes with the FBI’s resident Most Wanted criminal isn’t considered as appropriate work conduct.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Red sounds way too casual about it and the self-satisfied expression currently spread over his features is enough to let Liz know that he was fully aware of his little misstep.

“I must have accidentally taken Agent Keen’s scarf when I left her place the other night--”

Liz swallows a groan. This is great. Just great. Trust Reddington to make a bad situation even worse.

“-- which means that mine is still at your place, Lizzy.”

He turns to her with a sly smile, looking uncannily like the cat who caught the canary, and Liz isn’t sure if she wants to punch him or kiss the smirk off his face.

(Funny, Liz thinks, how the two always seem to go hand-in-hand with Reddington.)

“I think I’ll just have to hang on to this one as collateral, then.”

And with one last smile in her direction he’s off.

Liz knows that she should be mad at him because thanks to his little stunt Samar probably thinks that they’ve been hiding some illicit love affair for the past few months, but somehow she can’t bring herself to care.

Because Red is wearing _her_ scarf (which probably smells like her perfume and has some stray hairs on it - and dammit if this isn’t a completely irrational and insane thing to feel smug about), and she is pretty sure that he has all but _asked_ her to wear his in turn. Which actually sounds like a great deal to her because Red’s scarf has probably cost a small fortune and looks much softer and cozier than hers, anyway.

(Which makes it even more adorable how he somehow thinks that he’s gotten the better end of that deal.)

And yeah, she’ll admit it even if it makes her sound like a besotted fool: The thought of swapping scarves with him makes her feel warmer than any article of clothing ever could.

\--

The beginning of February finds Liz curled up on her couch, some trashy Hollywood blockbuster ( _For Love or Money_ \- Red’s pick, of course) playing softly in the background while she is staring down at Red’s sleeping face resting on her shoulder. He’s snoring softly, his lashes flickering against his cheek every once in a while in what Liz hopes to be a pleasant dream.

It’s his birthday and even though she asked him if he had anything special planned for today, he just looked at her and drawled a surprised “Well, if you’re offering-”, and Liz had internally prepared herself to pack an overnight bag for London or Amsterdam or Copenhagen, thought that they’d go climb a mountain or take a stroll down some beach with pink sand or get chased through a desert by a band of raging thieves - anything but this, really.

Because this is so fantastically unspectacular and downright ordinary - the mere thought that this could possibly be Red’s first choice, to spend the day with her, watching cheesy movies and eating torched popcorn - leaves her slightly breathless.

Careful not to wake him up, Liz slowly moves her hand to where his neck meets his shoulder and lets her fingers brush gently against the skin revealed by the collar of his shirt. Red gives a content sigh (oh so sleepy and quiet and Liz wants to memorize it forever), and burrows further into the cushions, head sliding slightly lower to rest against her arm instead.

And Liz finds herself wishing that this could be just another rainy afternoon, an everyday ritual for just the two of them - a cup of tea and a movie and the silent promise of falling asleep in each other’s arms at the end of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a quiet evening - no blacklister, no national security threat; and if she closes her eyes Liz can almost pretend that she’s just another normal person enjoying a lazy Sunday in. It’s a welcome change from chasing criminals because as much as she likes the satisfaction of going to bed knowing that she has saved lives, Liz enjoys this just as much - listening to the quiet pitter-patter of rain against the windows while she’s safe and warm inside, tucked cozily into the corner of her couch with a cup of hot chocolate numbing her fingers.

A few days ago Red had waltzed into her kitchen, confidently proclaiming that making a good cup of cocoa was a lost art (one which he excelled in, of course. One didn’t take a class with a French cuisine chef just to come out of it making a “watered-down brew that would rival that _abhorrent_ stuff they tried to pass as chocolate in the Armenian prison Dembe and I once got stuck in on our way to-”). He also took the liberty to stock her embarrassingly bare cupboards with dozens of sweet syrups and gourmet chocolate sprinkles imported from Holland.

Red has taken up what Liz mentally refers to as ‘his’ side of the couch, legs leisurely stretched out on the floor in front of him, his head angled slightly towards her so that he could ask her opinion whenever one of the trivial tidbits on TV peaks his interest.

They’re watching a documentary on ship restoration which caught her eye when she was looking for some background noise to accompany the long-suffering sighs aimed at her late-night paperwork the other day. Mostly because it looked like something Red would enjoy, which apparently is enough of a reason to scramble for the remote control and hit the record button on her DVR.

Still, she finds it surprisingly interesting.

(Although she isn’t above admitting that most of her enjoyment of the program is derived from watching Red’s obvious enthusiasm. Liz is quiet fond of the way his eyes light up in child-like wonder as if he’d love to set out and try it himself - buy a rusty, old, water-worn vessel and fix it all up again.)

Liz gives a content sigh, feels a bit like a cat lazing around in the afternoon sun as she snuggles further into the couch’s cushions.

Closing her eyes, Liz thinks that she had better be careful. She was quickly getting used to this, used to having him around, used to sharing these small moments of intimacy with him - just the two of them tugged away in a safe and quiet corner of the world. It was positively domestic - which is utterly ridiculous, of course. Because he is on the FBI’s Most Wanted list and she is a rookie FBI agent, and that should be enough for anyone to know that they don’t do normal or ordinary or _domestic_.

Still, she likes these moments more than she’d have thought. Which is why she needs to be extra careful not to slip up and do something stupid.

(Like skipping over that line they once drew oh-so carefully into the sand).

\--

The _Hart of Dixie_ soundtrack is blasting through the speakers of her phone while Liz is busy washing her new favorite blouse - the one Red brought her from his latest trip to Lisbon (the one which curiously, heartwarmingly matches the tie he got for himself on that very same trip).

Liz isn’t too find of washing things by hand; she’s always afraid of accidentally messing up halfway through and ending up with a shrunk, puppet-sized version of her clothes. She could probably just ask Red to take her things to his usual drycleaner, but she doesn’t want to be a bother.

Plus the repetitive motions - hypnotic and soothing as they are - give her some time to think. About what she’ll make for dinner, and about whether she should take the trash out now or wait until tomorrow morning. About when she’d have to renew her gym membership again, about whether she should get her hair cut professionally or invest in a pair of scissors and do it herself instead. About how handsome Red had looked in that beige suit he had worn the other day.

(One of these is not like the other.)

Liz groans in annoyance at herself.

Lately, she finds that she’s been getting incredibly sappy. She tries hard to remember if she has ever felt this way about Tom (or about any of her previous boyfriends for that matter), but she really can’t remember a time when a single glance at Tom’s socked feet sent her heart racing (- which, of course, is an absolutely ridiculous and truly pathetic reaction to have, no matter to whom the feet in question belong).

It’s just that with Red everything seems so significant; every little moment is infinitely precious to her. She wants to treasure every glance, every smile, because with him every little habit tugs at her heartstrings: The way he flicks his tongue against the inside of his cheek in thought. The way he chuckles (deep and throaty, slightly breathless) whenever she manages to catch him off guard. The way he can effortlessly wait for 20 years to open a bottle of Cheval Blanc, but has absolutely no patience for smartphones or tablets. The way his lips fit around a cigar - slowly, gently, sensuously.

Sometimes she wonders, too. About the things she doesn’t know (yet - the romantic in her adds optimistically). Wonders how the nape of his neck would feel under her exploring fingers, wonders if he’d tilt his head to the left or the right when being kissed. Wonders if he’d gasp or moan or whimper if she fitted her body snugly against his and nipped at the round little scar on his neck - her mark on his skin.

With another exasperated groan Liz drowns the blouse and decides to take a cold shower. Maybe that’ll help to clear her head.

\--

When she was in college Liz spent a good deal of her spring break holidays looking after people’s apartments. It was easy money - watering plants, feeding birds or turtles or even the occasional pet amphibian. She had always liked to make a game out of guessing the homeowner’s personality traits based on their interior decor.

Still, usually these homes had come with an intact heater. One that didn’t require a dent-worthy kick just to get started.

“So did you teach Modesty to jump against it whenever she’s feeling cold, or what?”

Liz throws an annoyed glance at the rusty old control panel. If she had known that the heating system in Red’s apartment essentially looked like the set of a post-apocalyptic global warming film she wouldn’t have bothered asking if she could stay over. She might have just as well stayed at her own place instead - broken heater and all.

There’s a long-suffering sigh from the other side of the phone, and Liz can practically see Red scratching his sideburn in thought.

“Have you tried the outlet on the right-hand side? The one with the two markers on it?”

Liz rolls her eyes - more at her own naiveté than at Red’s unhelpfulness. Because whatever made her think that Red - the man who showed up in a three-piece suit to help her paint her kitchen, the man who squinted at the IKEA instruction manual until she couldn’t take it anymore and asked Dembe to assemble her new bedframe instead, the man who had handpicked goons especially for repairing broken dishwashers - why the hell did Liz think that he’d _possibly_  be any help with this?

While Red is still rambling on - trying to remember what did the trick the last time (“a bottle of scotch and the truly delightful company of one Lucy Melbrook” - her lips twitch in barely-concealed distaste), Liz steers determinedly towards Red’s bedroom.

Modesty is still sitting on the couch right where Liz left her earlier, her slow-blinking eyes fixed on the latest episode of _Jessica Jones_ playing on TV. “Don’t eat my ice cream,” Liz mouths accusingly at the cat before ducking into Red’s bedroom.

In a matter of seconds she’s rifling through his closet, fingers brushing against the soft suits and crisp shirts. The smell of fresh laundry mixed with the lingering traces of Red’s cologne tugs at her heart and makes her want to climb into the closet like a child searching for a safe haven during a violent rainstorm.

“Did you get it?”

“Hmm?” Balancing up onto her tiptoes, Liz tugs at one of the neatly folded sweaters lying on a shelf just above her head. Its material feels wonderfully warm and soft; and wow, what a pity, Liz thinks, that Red’ll never see it again because from today on this sweater will come and live with her.

“Oh yeah, sure. It’s working now.” She lies and - momentarily putting the phone aside - quickly slips her freezing arms into the sweater.

On the other side of the line Red is switching topics again, audibly content with the knowledge that she is safe and warm.

\--

Things are quickly spiraling out of control, Liz thinks as she takes a tentative sip of her drink.

Red is hovering around her like a fretting mother hen, the dark look in his eyes clearly betraying his worry. Earlier, he actually pressed a glass of brandy into her hand as if she were some Victorian romance heroine suffering from bouts of hysteria. He even offered to have Dembe run down to the local pharmacy to fetch some vitamins for her.

All because she fainted.

At least that’s what _he_ thinks and Liz’d be damned to correct him. She’d rather have him think that she’s stressed out from catching blacklisters than see the embarrassed discomfort she’s guaranteed to find on his face if he should ever find out that she had merely stumbled over her own two left feet in an attempt to kiss him.

Well, no. That isn’t quite right either. Because saying that she had tried to kiss him would imply an active role on her part, as if she had made a conscious decision to do so when in fact it was more of a passive thing; an automatic turn on her heels to press a quick peck goodbye to the corner of his mouth as if that were a completely normal thing between them.

Her saving grace was that he had turned away the exact moment her brain had caught up with her body, causing her to stumble into him in a flurry of limbs and erratic heartbeats (also, there might or might not have been a humiliating shriek on her part).

Red caught her, of course. If she closes her eyes she can still feel his strong hands grasping at her arms and back, pulling her flush against him (and wow, maybe that whole damsel in distress metaphor wasn’t so far off after all).

Liz steals a look at Red from the corner of her eye. Right now he’s probably trying to come up with a non-offending way to offer her a vacation; Liz can practically hear him wondering if it would be too forward of him to suggest flying her out to some exclusive spa in Luxembourg (fun fact: she isn’t so sure that she’d tell him no).

All the while, she’s sturdily keeping her face turned away from him. Have him think that she’s embarrassed about this whole thing, alright.

But it had felt so _right_. Completely natural. As if kissing him hello and goodbye and something in-between was an integral part of their relationship, like feeling the warmth of his hand on the crook of her elbow whenever they walk side by side, or the way her eyes tend to drift to his lips whenever he launches into one of his maritime-themed parables.

Liz sighs in resignation and takes another sip of her brandy.

Oh well. Maybe someday.

\--

Sleep comes easier now.

Her once so frequently fraught nightmares starring murderous husbands and the paralyzing panic attacks she encountered during her time on the run from the FBI are slowly ebbing away. She barely wakes up covered in sweat anymore, even manages to keep her eyes closed when she hears the ancient floorboards in her new home creak and groan at night.

The dog helps, too.

Liz is so glad that Red took her to that shelter. She hadn’t realized just how much she missed Hudson (missed having someone who didn’t judge her for eating ice cream for breakfast, who was happy to see her no matter how messed up her makeup and hair was after a full 11 hours out in the field) until this one started wagging its tail at her, happily jumping up and down whenever she returned home from work.

And it’s so nice to have some of that old routine back, too: Getting up at 6 am for an early morning jog around the park, relaxing at a café during lunch break, the dog resting comfortably at her feet, or taking late afternoon walks around the patch of forest down the street.

Sometimes Red joins them.

He’s quiet taken with Kansas (and oh, there’s a story, too. About how Red had laughed at her and admitted to always having wondered whether she had named Hudson after the river or the _Sherlock Holmes_  character), and Liz isn’t shy to admit that his obvious love for Kansas had factored largely into her decision to pick this particular puppy from the joyfully-barking lot.

“ _Shinrin yoku_ ,” Red breathes after a while. “It’s a word the Japanese have for moments like this; strolls through the woods where you soak up the sun falling in through the leaves. I find them incredibly memorable, don’t you?”

Liz tears her eyes away from Kansas who is bounding animatedly through the bushes, most likely chasing an imaginary mouse or squirrel or bird.

Red’s eyes are closed, and for a moment the sight of him - the cool winter light flickering in mosaic patterns across his face - takes her breath away. Liz feels her fingers twitch with the urge to reach out to him, to tug him closer, to let her fingers trace over the light falling onto his face.

With effort, Liz turns away. Shrugs her shoulders.

“Not too many leafs around though.”

Red opens one eye, briefly looks at her before closing it again and heaving a sigh as if put-out.

“I see poetry is lost on you.”

She huffs in indignation, but takes a step closer anyway. When he starts to move again - further down into the depth of the woods, the branches overhead casting their shadows in an artful crisscross pattern onto the wistful expression on his face - Liz gives a contented sigh and slips her arm through his.

\--

It’s Thursday evening which means that it’s video game night at Aram’s.

Liz doesn’t know how he did it, but somehow Aram has managed to receive an advanced copy or some highly anticipated video game (Liz secretly suspects that he’s used his FBI credentials to get his hands on it, made up some excuse about needing the game for national security reasons), so now she’s giggling uncontrollably while her avatar is chasing zombies around an alpine holiday resort.

Sometimes Liz thinks about asking Aram to invite Red over, too. She thinks he’d enjoy it - not the actual games (she’s quite certain that he’d be terrible at those, if she’d ever get him to play, that is) but rather the quiet comforts of spending an evening among friends (real ones who didn’t try to shoot him as soon as he turned his back on them). The only thing stopping her from asking is that it would probably make Aram uncomfortable to hang out with Red; Liz can just imagine him fidgeting on the couch next to Red, always sneaking glances at Red’s glass to anticipate when he’d need another refill of his drink.

(Still, she’d love to one day persuade Red to race her in a round of _Mario Kart_ , thinks it’d be so much fun to watch him laugh and snicker as he leaned this way and that, shoulders bumping against hers with every turn.)

Although he’s certainly warming up to modern technology, Liz thinks as she smiles fondly down at the phone in her lap.

Lately, Red’s made a habit of texting her. They’re mostly quick messages (always perfectly worded, no misspellings or cute emoji, but rather matter-of-fact instead) letting her know that he’s leaving for Brussels or Stockholm or Milan, asking her if she needed a ride to work, or - on more than one occasion - offering up sarcastic remarks about Ressler’s downright _alarming_  inabilities as an agent of the US government (or as a human being, if you’d rather interpret the frequent comparisons to mindless robots this way).

Right now, her phone’s screen is lighting up to display a short but endlessly sweet _Sleep well_ , along with a promise to have Dembe arrange a meeting with her as soon as they are back in the country.

With a smile on her face that is just this side of besotted Liz puts the phone away and focuses back on the game, all the while feeling a tingling sensation inside her chest at the thought that he is thinking about her even though he is currently halfway around the world.

\--

Liz’s least favorite subject in school had always been English. No matter how much she had tried, somehow she had never been able to grasp the concept of rhetorical devices - the similes and metaphors and anaphora (the trying smile of her homeroom teacher still haunted her to this day). She still remembers sitting down with Sam in the evenings, sapping distractedly at a glass of grape juice while he tried to explain to her the subtle nuances of literary irony.

Now, looking at Red, she thinks that she finally understands.

When he had asked her to their latest meeting point, Liz hadn’t been able to suppress the laughter that had bubbled up inside of her, because really? The International Spy Museum?

He doesn’t seem to mind though. Just chuckles self-consciously at himself, and Liz wonders if he even cares about how ridiculous he looks striding through an exhibit dedicated to suave film noire spies and larger-than-life double agents in his black coat and leather gloves (and yes, the fedora - of course).

Liz keeps her eyes glued onto him as he looks at a set of ancient television screens playing scenes from various le Carré movies. There’s this look of childlike awe plastered onto his face, and Liz can’t quite keep her lips from twitching in fond amusement whenever he discovers a new piece that peaks his interest (something newer, something shinier yet).

She doesn’t mind seeing the exhibit even though she’d rather look at modern art than black and white photographs of gentleman gangsters (she’s got her own to look at whenever she wants anyway). But still, she feels incredibly pleased that he has asked her to accompany him. She’s always eager to learn something new about him - things he’s interested in, things he’s passionate about.

Liz secretly suspects that he doesn’t care too much about this blacklister, that maybe all he cared about was finding a reason to ask her to the museum. Which is completely ridiculous of course, because she hopes that by now he _knows_ that she would have tagged along without an imminent threat of national security being dangled in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

Suddenly, a group of tourists clatters past them right and left, and Liz can feel Red step into her personal space to avoid losing her among the throng of animatedly chattering Europeans.

Liz - suddenly finding herself eye to eye with the violet swirls of his Paisley tie (the one he got from his trip to Lisbon, Liz notes smugly) - tilts her face up to offer him a shy smile that is half annoyance at the sudden lack of privacy and half amusement at the absurdity of the whole situation.

He doesn’t return it though; merely keeps his eyes trained on her, a bit pensively, before slowly cocking his head to the side. For a second Liz thinks that she could probably never grow tired of looking at him - of simply standing still in the rapidly revolving world just to take in his face - the sharp cheekbones, the sweet upturn of his nose, the miniscule wrinkles around his eyes - so unbelievably full of joy and laughter for someone who has undergone so many hardships.

After just a moment, her breath hitches in her throat as she feels his hand slowly move from its resting place against the small of her back. She tries hard not to shudder as she feels it brush along her hip, his fingers burning a trail through the thin fabric of her blouse, and Liz swallows hard at the tingling sensation, can feel it deep inside her belly - a burning, hot desire to grasp his lapels and pull him impossibly close.

But then his hand gently, tenderly clasps her own in his, and Liz is left with nothing but lightheadedness at the sweetness of it all (at the sweetness of _him_ ).

Smiling shakily, she gives his hand a squeeze, even as she mentally cherishes this moment: the feel of his hand, the warmth of his skin against her own, the texture of his slightly rough, gun-trigger calloused thumb as it brushes shyly over her knuckles.

It’s all a bit too much and yet not nearly enough.

Slowly, the tourists move on, fluttering past them once again to look at a set of black and white photographs taken during the Cold War in East Berlin in one of the adjoining rooms. Their chatter gradually dies away and leaves them in a contemplative silence.

For a split second Liz is afraid that he’ll let go now, move away from her as if nothing had happened, launching into one of his stories to shatter the remnants of their intimacy like a hammer thrown into a glass window. But to her surprise, he stays close, doesn’t let go of her hand as he gently tugs her towards a set of coal sketches in the corner of the room which he “can’t wait to show you, Lizzy! They are truly marvelous!”

As he shares his thoughts on the drawings with her, Liz repeatedly finds her attention drifting to his thumb which continues its absentminded brushing over the back of her hand, and Liz can’t help but grin uncontrollably as she leans a bit closer into his side.

When she looks up at him a moment later her smitten smile is mirrored on his face.

\--

Inwardly swearing to herself to never wear shoes again, Liz sighs in delight as she slips out of her heels and props her aching feet (sans murderous high heels) on the coffee table. As much as she adores the thrill of going undercover with Red she could really do without the shoes.

She nips at her glass of Merlot, her eyes never leaving Red’s form as he snoops through her things. There’s this look of utter fascination on his face which she finds absolutely endearing, as if he’s looking at Van Gogh’s sunflowers instead of her assorted trinkets.

“You don’t mind, do you, Lizzy?” He asks absently as he moves on to her book collection, and for a moment Liz allows herself to wonder if he’s surprised by what he finds there.

She doesn’t read much, doesn’t find the time for it between chasing criminals and attending high-end functions in painful shoes. But when she does get around to it it’s usually non-fiction (the ones which are both interesting small-talk material for undercover missions and just boring enough to make her fall asleep in no time after a long day at work) or ( - her recent favorite) - absurdly predictable dime store crime novels.

Liz shrugs. “Well, you let me go through your things, so I guess it’s only fair. Plus, you don’t honestly think I believe that this is the first time you’ve gone through my stuff.”

“Oh, that’s not fair, Lizzy!” He gives a disappointed click of his tongue, and Liz rolls her eyes at his exaggerated (and completely unfounded) display of hurt. “There are a lot of your things I haven’t gotten a chance to see yet. Like your photo albums or your old college yearbooks.”

He pauses for a beat. “Or your underwear drawer.”

Liz snorts in amusement and tries hard to keep the laughter from spilling out of her.

“Keep dreaming, Reddington.”

\--

#68 comes with a truly ridiculous nickname (“The Phantom”; and you know you’ve chosen the wrong moniker if even the _Concierge of Crime_ can’t keep a straight face when saying your name) and an even more outrageous background of crime (a graphic novel-worthy origins arc if there ever was one).

They are at Red’s latest safe house. The whole interior is very modern, very simplistic. It’s a bit bare for her taste, and if the barely concealed look of annoyance which appears on his face whenever he accidentally bumps into the oversized lamp looming large in the very center of the living room is anything to go by, Red isn’t too fond of the apartment either.

His things are easy to discern against the cold art deco backdrop. There’s a single record (Miles Davis) leaning against a set of silver picture frames filled with stock photo images of artificially smiling families; and the stack of international newspapers (English, Russian, French; all heavily dog-eared) on the coffee table does surely not belong to the same person who has gone through the neatly organized arrangement of _arthouse_ +Architecture brochures lying abandoned on the far corner of the couch.

Lying spread-eagled among the papers is an edition of Rushdie’s _Midnight's Children_ , its cover still new and shiny, and Liz feels her heart flop around in her chest as she remembers having fleetingly mentioned that it was her favorite only a few days ago.

She wonders if that’s why he bought it. Of maybe he had simply thought that it sounded interesting and worth checking out. Or maybe just wanted to see what kind of stories she liked (so he could pick his anecdotes accordingly). Or maybe he wanted to read it so he’d be able to discuss it with her, something along the lines of ‘Oh, speaking of #13 and his irksome penchant for setting fire to church buildings - what did you think about Rushdie’s use of religious imagery?’.

Whatever his reason, Liz doesn’t care. Because the only thing that matters is what she’ll take away from this (and this is what she chooses: Red reading her favorite book simply because he cares about her.)

There are footsteps behind her, and when Liz turns towards him it’s with a blinding smile on her face.

\--

Liz feels like dozing, and if the band stays true to their apparent penchant for slow-paced songs she’ll be asleep in a matter of minutes.

They are at some cozy little vineyard restaurant somewhere in Calabria, Italy. The food is great, the wine is wonderful, and surprisingly enough the company is getting along for once. For some reason Red is on his best behavior and even Ressler manages to bite down on his usual hostility towards his self-proclaimed nemesis.

Maybe it’s the school-trip feeling of chasing a blacklister abroad, or maybe it’s simply the lovely atmosphere - romantic live music, the stars glowing brightly above their heads, the crispy evening breeze ruffling their hair…

Liz steals a glance at Red from the corner of her eye. He’s sitting right next to her, politely listening to Aram’s ramblings about some new online game or other (Liz is convinced that Red doesn’t even understand half of it; as far as she knows he has never even played a single game of _Snake_ on that ancient flip phone of his). His thigh is brushing against hers whenever he leans forward to take a sip of his beer, and Liz is thankful for the extra warmth his body exudes.

There’s a woolen blanket draped over their laps. Earlier, Liz had used it as an excuse to scoot up closer to him when she had noticed that he had barely been covered due to some misguided attempt to let her have most of it. Idiot.

In order to keep herself from falling asleep Liz lets her fingers play absentmindedly with the paper wrap on her beer. It’s some local brew, dark and woodsy - if there’s even such a thing. She has never been good at actually _tasting_  alcohol; she had always been more of the throw-back-your-head-and-down-it-all kind of girl.

She yawns, her eyelids heavy. Maybe she should just excuse herself and head to bed. The pastoral four-poster bed in her hotel room (an upgrade from their FBI-sanctioned 3-star motel - courtesy of their favorite criminal) looked simply _divine_ , and Liz can’t wait to throw herself onto it and never move again.

She’s just about to get up when all of a sudden she’s wide awake again. Because beneath the blanket Red’s fingers have brushed against her thigh.

It’s just a quick, fleeting touch of the tip of his fingers against the bare skin where her dress has ridden up, and yet it has practically set her nerve endings aflame. His cool fingers felt so good against her summer-heated skin, and for a split second Liz can’t help but imagine what it would feel like if he’d keep going, if he’d let his fingers trace up the inside of her thigh and slip beneath the flimsy fabric of her dress…

Liz doesn’t think it was intended though, cannot quite imagine that he’d be daring enough to want to rest his hand on her knee or thigh. But after just another moment his intention becomes clear as his hand finds hers under the blanket, his fingers slowly slanting over hers.

It feels so wonderful that Liz can feel her heart burst. She wants to cry, wants to laugh, wants to turn towards him and _beam_  at him. The only thing stopping her is Ressler and Aram and Samar sitting right there with them, and while Samar probably wouldn’t even bat an eye, Liz is sure that Ressler would make a scene.

Careful not to give anything away, Liz turns to look at Red’s face. He isn’t looking at her, instead he’s nodding at something Ressler said, the perfect picture of an engaged listener. Liz knows better though, is quite certain that in his mind he’s thinking about her because all the while his thumb keeps brushing soothing patterns over the back of her hand.

And it’s so sweet, so endearing, that suddenly Liz is finding it difficult to breathe.

\--

Hours later, he’s walking her to her room.

He’s staying at a safe house just out of town;  at some cozy, little apartment filled with Greek figurines (she’s badgered Dembe into showing her some pictures of the place), so this must be a huge inconvenience for him. He could have just left with Dembe right away, she wouldn’t have minded. Still she’s grateful for this, grateful for the few extra minutes his lingering affords her with him.

But just the same, something feels off about him.

For one, there’s none of his usual flair - the confidence, the infuriating smugness, the nonchalant devil-may-care attitude he usually dons on like a second skin - it’s all gone. Instead he seems smaller somehow. Almost nervous. All the signs are there anyway - the uneasy huff of laughter, the biting of the inside of his cheek, and - yes, there it is, the constant drumming of his fingers against his thigh, the brim of his fedora squished against the soft wool of his suit pants.

He looks as if he’s working himself up to say something important, and Liz wonders if this is it. If they’re finally crossing that one line that’s still left in the sand, a glaring bright red reminder of what cannot be.

Within seconds, her heart is racing painfully inside her rip cage, drum-drum-drumming away to her frantic thoughts (about when she had last applied lip balm, about if her perfume was still smelling fresh and flower-y, about whether she should rest her hands on his shoulders or against his chest when he finally moved in-).

But all of a sudden Red seems to snap out of it, merely nods at her and palms his fedora back onto his head. And before she can make sense of what just happened between them (or rather: what hadn’t happened between them) he’s turning to leave. It’s just that Liz isn’t quite ready to let him just yet. Not now that they’re halfway there, not now that her treacherous brain has dangled taunting images and daydreams of what could be in front of her.

“Red - Raymond. Wait!”

He turns to face her once more and Liz has barely enough time to register the surprised look on his face before she’s closing the distance between them.

(And oh - _oh_!)

His lips feel absolutely wonderful - so soft, so warm against hers that she has to bite back a moan.

Red has gone completely still though, and Liz thinks that she must’ve caught him by surprise because wasn’t this the logical culmination of all that has passed between them in the last few months? Of all the stolen glances and loving touches, all the fond smiles and little gestures, all the glimpses of what could be if they’d only be brave enough to _try_?

And suddenly she’s scared out of her mind - scared that with just one kiss she has ruined everything, that she’ll drive him away, that he’ll never look her in the eye again. Feeling desperate now, Liz brings her hand up to rest over his heart. It’s racing erratically beneath her fingers, and Liz is glad for it, glad to feel that this is as real to him as it is to her.

And then he’s kissing her back - finally.

Liz can barely keep herself from breaking away and squealing in delight. Her whole body is brimming with excitement; she feels like a kid on Christmas morning, only that this is better because she is pretty sure that this isn’t just a one-time-only- but rather a forever kind of kiss - fumbling fingers and squished noses and breathless sighs.

When they part Red is beaming at her. Warmly. Brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you for sticking around - I'm terribly sorry it took so long to finish this; as always, feedback and criticism is very welcome and much appreciated (I finally found out how to respond to comments, too).

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed something light-hearted and sweet. Feedback is much appreciated.


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